


Filthy

by TooManyChoices



Series: Sherlock and the Thames [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ...and I'm not sorry, First Time, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, I've thrown Sherlock in the Thames again, John is a Saint, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-08-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 15:37:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2115426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyChoices/pseuds/TooManyChoices
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's ended up filthy after another dip in the Thames (sorry) and without John's help, his hair will be a write-off (Oh NO..not the hair!).<br/>Touching ensues...then more touching..good touching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filthy

“WAIT!” John reached out, placing a palm flat against Sherlock’s chest and barring his entrance to Baker Street.

“But…”

“No…just wait. Let me put some paper down. Mrs Hudson will have our hides if we get that stuff on her floor.”

Sherlock stood on the doorstep, black viscous goo dripping from his now ruined coat. Oily droplets left black tears as they slid down his cheeks and gave the impression that his hair was somehow melting down his face.

“Fine.” Sherlock crossed his arms, and uncrossed them again quickly as the sticky material squelched and liquid oozed further into the fabric.

“I’d be tempted to have you strip off on the pavement if it wasn’t the middle of January.”

The changeable eyes widened briefly, “John, You wouldn’t?”

“It’d serve you right. You couldn’t just give me 30 seconds, could you? Had to go rushing off on your own? AGAIN!” John had retrieved old newspapers from the foyer and was laboriously layering them in a path up the stairs to the door of 221B.

“John?” Sherlock shouted through the open door.

“WAIT!”

“I’m cold.”

“Shut up!” John disappeared up the stairs.

Sherlock shifted from one foot to another impatiently, “I’m coming in.”

John stalked down the stairs, gave the filthy detective a stern and disapproving look and hissed, “No…. You’re not. You’ll come in when I say.” And swung the door closed in his face.

Sherlock stood on the front step, shivering and wretched. He spared a downward glance at himself and then quickly lifted his head again as the black goo in his hair threatened to run into his eyes. What was worse was the smell. Wrinkling his nose he conceded that John had been quite correct on the way home, he smelled repulsive.

He pressed the buzzer for 221B, hoping that John would take pity on him and noted with disgust the black fingerprint he left behind on the doorbell button. After waiting for a count of ten with no movement at the door, he knocked in what he hoped was an appropriately apologetic manner.

The door opened and John stood, arms crossed and demeanour anything but placated. “OK, you can come in but here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk upstairs…not touching ANYTHING…straight through the door and into the bathroom. You’re to drop your clothes in the garbage bag I’ve left for you and you’re then going to get in the shower. It’s already running for you. Are….we….clear?”

Sherlock risked a repeat of the goo down his forehead to dip his face in surrender, William Sherlock Scott Holmes knew when he'd been beaten “Yes John.”

“Good” John stood to one side, “Up you go.”

Twenty minutes later, clothes in the garbage bag and the shower water beginning to cool, Sherlock was forced to accept that he had a serious problem with regards to his hair. Although he’d been able to scrape and peel the black muck from his skin; his hair was matted together and after three vigorous attempts, the situation was only getting worse.

He turned off the taps and wrapped a towel around his waist. Not daring to try towelling off his hair, he sat dejectedly on the side of the bath for several minutes as the cold air made his skin prickle and goose-bump.

A knock came at the door, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock heaved a long defeated sigh before replying, “Yes, come in John. You may as well.”

The door swung open and for a moment John regarded his flatmate, sitting on the edge of the bath, back toward him, shoulders hunched in defeat. It wasn’t a posture John was familiar with and it made the tall, lean man look somehow smaller and more vulnerable. A wave of protective fondness rose within him. It wasn't an unusual feeling, and was blind-siding him more frequently since he'd moved back after the divorce.

“Sherlock?” he began worriedly.

“You’re going to have to shave it off. It’s unsalvageable.” The words were delivered matter-of-fact but there was a note of reluctance underpinning them.

“What?....” As Sherlock raised his head to turn, John could see his issue. The black curls were a snarled mess, still coated in sticky muck. The thought of Sherlock losing his curls, the single most chaotic, yet distinctive aspect of his personality sent a surprisingly horrified shudder through John and he jumped to reassure them both.

“No Sherlock, I’m sure it’ll be fine. Here, let me look.” Sherlock flinched away as John reached for his hair, tension pulling at the muscles in his neck before John gently lay his hand on a shoulder instead, “C’mon, let’s move to the sitting room where it’s warmer, ok?”

@@@@

John pulled the coffee table over so it sat between his chair and the fire and beckoned the now robe-clad detective to sit. They'd draped his shoulders with a towel to spare the fabric from as much damage as possible. If they couldn't get this _stuff_ out of Sherlock's hair, there would be little hope of salvaging material.

Sherlock sat, back rigid and the muscles in his neck in tense relief. His hands balled in fists on his thighs as he silently waited for John to survey the damage.

John wanted to say _It's not as bad as you think_ , but the truth was, he feared it was. Whatever this stuff was, that Sherlock had fallen head-first on the banks of the Thames, it was tenacious. Thick like treacle and black like bitumen it held and tugged and yet also oozed and spread. But John was a fighter, and he wasn't willing to concede defeat just yet.

"Just a second, wait here." Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, John grasped at the tantalising threads of a memory. His sister Harry, chewing-gum in her hair and his Mum saying _Oil Helps...lubricates the hair...makes the gum slide off_.

Hunting through the cupboards, John found a bottle of baby-oil. No doubt procured for one of Sherlock's experiment, it remained virtually full. He brought it, and a wide-tooth comb back to the warmth of the lounge.

"Ok. I've think this is worth a shot. My Mum could get anything out of anything, so we'll give it a go, right?"

Sherlock remained motionless and oddly stiff. More-so than the threat of cutting his hair should render him. His breathing was elevated and his hands remained tightly clenched.

"Sherlock, what's wrong? You need to tell me so I can help."

Still facing fixedly toward the fire, all John got was a terse shake of the head and a glimpse of more tight muscles in Sherlock's neck.

Frustration rose, "Look...I want to help, but you're being a total...."

Sherlock interrupted, "I don't want you to touch my hair John, I just....It's....I just can't. Alright...Just, drop it OK?"

"What? Don't be ridiculous. I'm not going to hurt you. I'll be as gentle...."

A frustrated sigh, verging on a moan rent the air as Sherlock's head tipped back, the ruined curls bunching at the base of his skull. He chuckled bitterly, "Oh yes...gentle...that will solve everything."

Completely at a loss, but suspecting he was on the verge of some sort of revelation, John quietly put down the comb and oil and circled the distressed man to sit in Sherlock's chair, better able to see his eyes and make sense of what he was saying.

Dipping his head to look up at Sherlock's shadowed face, he began gently, "Sherlock...tell me...You know you can tell me anything."

Another shake, "Not this. You don't want this."

"Try me." John smiled in a way he hoped was encouragingly, rather than with the desperate hope he knew was rising like a tide.

Another shake of the head, but perhaps a little less vehement than the last.

John reached out a hand to cup Sherlock's face, the more golden tones of his skin contrasting to Sherlock's pale cheeks and the black of his hair. He whispered again, "Seriously Sherlock.....try me."

The face tilted up, glittering eyes haunted with doubt, searching John's for reassurance and faith. He took a deep steadying breath before beginning.

"John, we're friends.....Good friends"

John nodded, "Best friends."

A huff of acknowledgement, "And I don't want to do anything to endanger that. I can't survive losing you again."

"Little chance of that."

"But...my hair. It's...complicated. I see you looking at it, looking at...me, and it's...nice...it's good. I..." Sherlock paused, looking for the right words, "..I encourage it. I'm fine with it. It's _all_ fine. If that's all you want to do....just to _look,_ I'm fine with it."

John opened his mouth to reply, to clarify that he wanted to do more than look, but Sherlock silenced him with a hand, clearly not finished with his monologue.

"But John...my hair." He winced, struggling to vocalise his thoughts clearly, "I...my hair is sensitive, John. VERY sensitive." He fixed John with unwavering focus, ensuring his meaning would be clear, "I'm not sure I can.....resist...you touching as well as looking."

John closed his mouth which had fallen open in surprise. Sherlock had never given any indication that he returned John's unrequited feelings. He'd assumed, after their _married to my work_ conversation all those years ago that Sherlock's position hadn't changed. To now hear that he knew, that he...encouraged..John's attention was surprising. Surprising and.....very interesting indeed.

"So you're....not uninterested?" John replied finally, he knew the hope was clear in his tone.

An analytic twinkle touched Sherlock's pale eyes, tinged with a delighted wonder, "Oh....and you're not as....uninterested, as I thought?"

John could do nothing but shake his head, not trusting himself to speak.

"Well that rather changes things, doesn't it John?"

"I'd think so...I'd...."John paused, considering, "...definitely think so."

Sherlock raised a hand, gently toying with a caked curl, "I'll be honest with you though, I'm still not sure what will happen; if you....touch them. Fancy a little danger?"

"Always..." John said calmly, "With you?... _Always_ "

John moved back to his own chair to gain better access to Sherlock's hair. The activity had taken on a different mood now. John tried to concentrate on the practicalities of the task but each time he reached out he was swamped with the desire to linger a little longer, wishing that the curls under his hands were fluffy and smooth rather than wet and clinging. He contented himself with the thought that, if he did his job well, perhaps the chance to touch them in all their glory was a little closer than it had been a mere hour ago.

Pouring a little baby oil in the palm of his hand, he gathered several curls together and massaged them between his fingers, lubricating them with the slippery liquid. Trying not to tug or otherwise cause Sherlock any discomfort, Sherlock nevertheless occasionally turned his head, the tension pulled the hair straight and a series of gentle gasps escaped his lips.

"You OK?"

"Fine." The answer muted between gritted teeth "Keep going."

"As long as you're...."

"John....it's _fine....._ Please...it's... _fine"_

John could see Sherlock's hand, clenching and unclenching on his thigh and smiled. It was something of a rush to see the usual dominant detective struggling. Usually in absolute control over every situation Sherlock was continuing to unravel before him and John was unbearably aroused by the switch in power. He tried again to divert his wandering thoughts back to Sherlock's hair rather than the increasing bulge in his jeans.

The strained voice cut through his reverie, "Is it helping? John, is it helping?"

"Yeah. Yeah I think it is." John gently pulled apart the ringlets, massaging more oil amongst the hair. The tone in Sherlock's voice, rough and husky made John swallow reflexively, desire pooling low in his belly.

"Good. That's...good." Sherlock lapsed back into silence and for several minutes they worked at the problem together. Both lost in their own heads as the drumbeats of their hearts drowned out the crackle of the fire and Baker Street outside the window.

John had become engrossed in the repetitive movement of massage, gentle stretch and combing when Sherlock's voice cut through his reverie, "John! John, can you stop for a bit?"

John dropped the hair in his hand immediately, moving his hand to the towel covering Sherlock's shoulder. A shoulder that was now trembling noticeably.

"You OK?"

"Yes....just need...just need a moment, to calm down a bit." Sherlock stood and stretched, keeping his back to John before leaning forward to put his hands shakily on his knees, breathing hard. Finally, he sat on the coffee table again, a little too heavily and a low giggle huffed out, "I must admit to you John, when we finally faced our mutual attraction, this isn't how I pictured it."

"You...you pictured it?"

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, a smile pulling his full lips thinner, "Often...very often."

"And how DID you picture it?"

"Usually with kissing..and rather more of me groping you shamelessly."

John swallowed thickly and smoothed his tongue over his lips, his voice came out small and tinny, "Oh."

"But I wasn't planning of having to deal with the risk of spreading _this_.."he waved a hand at his hair, "halfway across the flat. Can we get this fixed please?"

John's voice still sounded distant to his own ears, "Yeah..." he repeated, more determined, "Yes...In fact, I think we're ready to try washing it off. Bathroom?"

"Bathroom." Sherlock agreed decisively.

@@@@@@

In the brief moments it took to reach the door of the bathroom John had come to a conclusion. He found his eyes his eyes drawn to the towel around Sherlock's waist, the robe now discarded on the sofa.

"So....how awkward are we going to make this?" Sherlock asked, his hand at the edge of the towel.

John straightened his shoulders and strode into the room, "I vote..not at all." He began unbuttoning his shirt as he passed the taller man, pausing only to tuck a finger into the top edge of the towel and give it a flick, dislodging the edge and turning to smile smugly as the fabric pooled at the base of long legs leaving Sherlock naked, "We're both grown-ups..right?"

Sherlock smiled down at the shorter man, now crowding his personal space as John shed his shirt and started on his jeans, "Right. How delightfully progressive of you John, I'd expected more hesitation."

John quirked a lip up and settled a hand on Sherlock's hip, "Goes to show I still have a few surprises up my sleeve. You really should have known, once I commit to a course...I'm all-in."

"Indeed. As I said...delightful." Sherlock skimmed a large hand around John's neck, his fingers tangling in the short hairs there and drew him closer. Their noses inches apart, eyes flicked in expectation. Suddenly John wrinkled his nose and the moment was broken.

"You smell like a chip-shop next to roadworks. I'm not kissing you for the first time and having that sense memory. Shower...now." He pointed across the room and slapped Sherlock on the arse as he stepped aside.

John dropped his jeans and pants to the floor, toed off his socks, and stepped in as Sherlock adjusted the temperature, moving up behind his flatmate. Sherlock startled slightly as John pressed a gentle kiss against his spine between the shoulder blades and John steadied him with a hand on his narrow hip.

Sherlock turned, John's hand skimming across the skin below his navel, stirring the short dark hairs there before settling on the opposite side against his waist and leaving a trail of shivers and goose-bumps behind. John looked down and then back up into Sherlock's face, open and hopeful in the bathroom light.

He chuckled softly, "You're really sensitive, aren't you?"

"You may have noticed John, not many people touch me, and I don't invite it. There's reasons."

"But you want me to touch..don't you?" John asked, suddenly nervous.

"Oh yes...I want you to touch me, very badly."

John cleared hi throat, "Right then, that's good because it turn out that's what I want too. But first...hair." John reached for the shampoo, "Lean down a bit, you gorgeous, mutant stick insect."

Sherlock snorted and fondly muttered, "Dwarf" before tilting forward, bringing his curls within reach, moaning as John's fingers threaded through the now greasy mess.

Lathering quickly, John efficiently dealt with both tangles and the frustrated man under his hands. Sherlock groaned and shuddered, unwilling or unable to keep his noises to himself and by the time John had rinsed for the first time, Sherlock's thighs were quivering and barely able to support him. With increasing frequency, John felt long fingers reach and settle on his arms, chest, legs before twitching and retreating again only to return almost immediately stroking and exploring.

"Christ Sherlock," John lathered again, confident now that the curls were surrendering their filthy burden, "You're unravelling in front of me, aren’t you? God, can you come just from this?"

"No," Sherlock panted, clearly lying through his teeth. He almost certainly could, in fact John estimated he was about to in less than two minutes.

"Fucking amazing. You're the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Whatever Sherlock tried to say in response was converted to a muddled "Pleentthhhhhhgh" and John took pity on him as he rinsed the hair for the second time.

"Hang in there love, I'll be with you in just a second."

Desperate eyes sought John's as Sherlock whispered, "Love?"

John didn't flinch, "Yeah..Love..that a problem?"

Sherlock leaned in and buried his head in John's neck, shaking his head in negation within the crook as the last of the suds left his hair and John's hands finally moved to territory he'd longed to touch for years.

“Oh, fuck.” This from Sherlock. Voice scratchy as all hell, deep and choked. John felt a distant sense of smug triumph, even as he himself moaned and closed his hand around their cocks, bringing them together.

“Fuck,” Sherlock was keening, and now he’d said it he couldn’t seem to stop. “Fuck, oh, fuck, John, fuck.”

And that was all Sherlock could stand. The coiling pleasure in his groin suddenly snapped and he shouted "I’m coming, oh, keep going, keep going, fuck!” And he was tensing up hard and shivering and coming with a whimpering sob as he splattered John's stomach and chest, struggling for breath.

John stroked him through it and Sherlock was dimly aware of John’s hand gripping hard on his hip and gasping, “Yeah…that’s it…fuck, Sherlock, incredible…” as John continued to work himself through the slick between them.

A mass of skin and need, John couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, could only hear the echoes of Sherlock shouting obscenities and ‘fuck, John, please,’ and it was suddenly too much, his orgasm ripping him apart as he arched against Sherlock crying out, grunts quieting as aftershocks, on and on, made him shiver, feeling everything and being consumed by it.

They slid, rather ungracefully, to the floor of the shower, Sherlock's back against the tiles, John cradled in his arms, both too boneless to move as the water sluiced over them, rinsing the evidence of their passion away.

John snuggled in closer as Sherlock's deep baritone laugh rattled under his arm.

"Something funny?"

"Just thinking about something you said."

"What did I say?"

"You said you were tempted to make me strip off in the street."

"So?"

"Probably just as well I didn't."

"Why?"

"Apparently you fancy me....could have been a bit awkward, you getting aroused in the street."

"Yeah...this was better. Now...can we go to bed?"

"Why...are you tired?"

"No."

"Good. Neither am I"


End file.
